


Fever

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Sick Fic, Winterlock Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's turn with the virus from hell. </p><p>Written for Selskia as part of the Winterlock Exchange on Tumblr. The prompt I selected was : "my OT3 is Sherlock/John/Greg in a loving relationship". Sorry I couldn't hit the other items.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever

There had to be a sweet spot. Some perfect proportion must exist, a position in which the blanket would be covering enough of his flesh to stop the shivering, but not so much of it that his body was slick with sweat. Perhaps a bit more exposed leg? Gingerly he pressed his foot forward, hoping to sneak the movement in without awakening the grinding ache in his knee. Slowly, gently, and…there. Just there. But no. That had allowed his whole body to slip forward, tipping his chest below the angle at which he could actually breathe. Dammit. He attempted a cautious shuffle back, lifting his head and sliding his shoulders back up the armrest until…yes. Just. Like. That. The proper alignment of his body, reclined enough to actually sleep and upright enough to breathe somewhat freely. The precisely calibrated blanket positioning; no more sweat sliding greasily over super-heated skin, no more shivers setting his joints throbbing. Heavy limbs dragged him toward the oblivion of sleep until a breath drawn just slightly too deeply caught against irritated tissues and set off a cascade of distress. A series of percussive wheezes drove through his lungs and forced him upright. The sudden movement crashed through his joints, shuddered along each muscle group until his body was one vast ache. Catching his breath was a lengthy process, shallow gasps through chapped lips until finally, finally, he achieved a slower rhythm. His throbbing spine collapsed back against the sofa arm, nearly jarring loose another coughing fit. He was fairly certain that his chest wasn’t meant to be making such bizarre crackling sounds on each inhalation. He’d have to ask John. John would know. John who understood living bodies far better than dead. Dead. Perhaps he was dying. It seemed a likely end result from such agony, and the only possible relief. 

“Sherlock?” Greg stood in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in his own faded robe and with his hair sticking out in all directions. “You alright, there? Was I snoring again?” The older man’s voice still rasped with its own remnants of the virus. 

“No.” One word set him coughing. When the spasms finally stopped, he gestured tiredly toward his own body. 

“Yeah. I see that. Your turn, I guess.” Sherlock heard the sink come on, the doppler-shift hiss of a glass being filled. “Here, sit up now. Let’s just…yeah, I know it hurts.” Greg winced in sympathy while Sherlock hauled his trembling body upright, then helped him cup the glass in both hands. Sherlock’s cautious sip gave way to a desperate guzzle, the cool relief flowing down the column of his throat and spreading through his chest. Sighing, he allowed his head to tip back against the cushions. Greg caught the empty glass before it could fall to the floor. “I’m gonna get the kit, take your temp.” 

The bathroom cabinet creaked open and Sherlock could hear Greg fumbling the box of probe covers John insisted they use. Water ran and splashed in the sink, and then Greg returned to the sitting room. A cool flannel was laid across Sherlock’s aching forehead and the plastic thermometer tip pressed against his protruding lower lip. With a huff he allowed Greg to jab the instrument firmly under his tongue and closed his mouth until it beeped. “Thirty-eight point eight.” Sherlock guessed.

“No secret agent decoder ring for you.” Greg showed him the display, amber back-lighting the numbers 38.11. 

“That can’t be right. You did it wrong.” He made an ill-advised grab for the device, missed, and settled back with a groan. “Go get John. He knows how to do it.” The flannel on his forehead was dripping down his cheek. He swiped the sleeve of his robe over the droplets, cooling his flushed cheeks. 

“Sherlock, no. John’s exhausted. We don’t need to wake him up.” John had been weary when he’d arrived home from his great aunt’s funeral to find Greg battling his own illness. Greg’s harsh night-time coughing had shredded everyone’s sleep, further fraying John’s energy levels. Even Sherlock, irregular habits not-withstanding, had been run a bit ragged. 

“Thirsty.” More coughing.

“Yep. How ‘bout some juice, toast, paracetamol, and back to bed?”

“Toast is loathsome. I want Blackbeard’s Booty.” 

Greg was silent for a long moment. “That’s a new one.” He shuffled into the kitchen. “What’s in it?” 

Sherlock groaned. “Get John. Mycroft taught him how to make it, the big know-it-all.” The insult was tacked on at the end, a habitual rather than heartfelt epithet. 

Greg turned to face him. “Are you really such a child…what am I saying, of course you are.” He gave up and padded back down the hallway. Sherlock sank back, taking the now uncomfortably warm cloth from his face and letting it ‘squelch’ onto the wood floor. He kicked and wriggled irritably; the infection was taking over his body, flowing from his chest on the tides of his blood. It would become systemic, making its way to his organs, his brain, infecting every system in an inexorable killing wave. His temperature would rise steadily higher and higher-- and there was no way Greg had taken it properly, he should’ve had John do it in the first place-- until his body began shutting down. Perhaps it already was. He closed his eyes and allowed another coughing fit to run through him, hoping someone would come soon and write down his observations. It would be his last contribution, describing how it felt to die, and it deserved to be taken seriously. And then John was at his elbow, Greg sinking into the armchair at Sherlock’s feet. 

“Yeah. Great. Alright then, what hurts?” Matter-of-fact resignation mixed with wry sympathy. It hardly fit the moment. Sherlock decided to hold silent until John was ready to accept the gravity of the situation.

Greg sighed. “He’s pretty warm.”

Cool hands over his forehead, brushing back his hair and stroking his cheek. “Yeah, he really is. Did you take-”

Sherlock’s resolve broke. “He did it wrong. Or maybe the thermometer is broken. Use the one in the kitchen.” 

“I’m not checking for fever with a meat thermometer, Sherlock.” Paper tore, releasing the scent of sterile plastic. “Open up.” And John, more gently than Greg, tucked the sheathed instrument into place. 

“Heesh nisher ‘n ‘oo.” Sherlock spoke around the nib.

“Hush. Greg did his best, and you’re throwing off the reading.” John removed the thermometer, pressed the button to reset the readings, and stabbed it back into place. “It’s a 30 second delay, even you can keep your mouth shut for 30 seconds.”

“Easier when he’s sleeping.” Greg stood up and collected the abandoned washcloth, headed purposefully into the kitchen. “You wanna talk me through Blackbeard’s Booty when you’re done there? I don’t think he’s eaten in the last eight hours or so, and you know what paracetamol does to him on an empty stomach.”

The thermometer beeped again, and Sherlock cracked open one eye to take in John’s beetled brow. So he’d been right, and Greg hadn’t done it correctly. John never looked like that for anything less serious than 39 degrees. 

“Okay then, up you sit. Let’s get you comfortable.” John suited action to words, lifting Sherlock into a sitting position and beginning to rearrange the throw. He refused a request for ‘the good pillows’, determined that the ill man return to a real bed just as soon as he’d been fed and dosed, but did tuck the decorative cushion carefully behind Sherlock’s aching head. 

“You should get your notebook”. The walls of the flat seemed to throb, pulsing with the beat of London’s living heart. Sherlock’s limbs shook, his fingers plucking restlessly at the edge of the throw John had tucked around his shoulders. The end wasn’t far away. “You’ll want to write down everything I say, no matter how nonsensical. Try not to get distracted by sentiment.” 

“What?” John stared at him in confusion. 

“It’s my final work, John. My observations as I cross the threshold of death. I’m certain it will be invaluable, provided you don’t allow yourself to become maudlin and florid. You must write down my words exactly, and not color them with your whimsy.” He resisted the urge to press the back of his wrist to his aching forehead, opting instead to let his eyes fall shut on a carefully controlled sigh. The effect was somewhat marred by another round of wheezing coughs, though John’s steadying arm around his shoulders was certainly comforting. He sagged into the shorter man while his breathing steadied. He was startled by Greg’s low laugh.

“He’s in rare form. The fever, do you think?” The cloth, rinsed and cool, wiped over his heated face. 

“Yeah, probably.” John gave Sherlock’s shoulder a squeeze. “You aren’t dying, you know. Miserable with fever, and I don’t like the sound of that cough, but I promise you aren’t going to die. Not from this, anyway.” He took the cloth and draped it around Sherlock’s sticky nape. “Just sit back and relax now, love. I’m going to make you something to eat, and get you some tablets.” His slippers scuffed into the kitchen, Greg’s bare feet slapping in counterpoint.

Their voices washed over him, low and fond, punctuated by the clinks of flatware and porcelain. “That’s all there is to it?” Greg shouldn’t be amused. It was an easy dish to make, but the proportions had to be exact. It wasn’t something that could just be explained. It required demonstration. 

“Yeah, pretty much. _I’m_ able to make it, how complicated can it be?” Their voices came nearer, and Sherlock was handed a bowl of creamy yellow applesauce, garnished with a generous dollop of blackberry jam and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. “But you can’t mix it together,” John continued, “or use anything except blackberry jam.” 

Sherlock shook his head solemnly. He filled the spoon nearly full of applesauce, picked up some jam with just the tip. “And not chunky applesauce, either, no matter what Mummy says,” he informed them before putting spoon to mouth with obvious relish. It was cold and sweet and faintly tart, reminiscent of handmade pinwheels and a cracked adolescent voice explaining how even bedrooms have air currents. Sherlock ate slowly, precisely measuring out the jam so no spoonful was plain apple flavor. John had painstakingly sprinkled the cinnamon in an even carpet over the entire bowl. He sighed when it was gone and traded the empty bowl for the glass Greg had refilled. The older man reached into his robe pocket and handed John his stethoscope, the eartubes wrapped around the foil packet of paracetamol. John passed the medicine to Sherlock.

“Here ya go, love. Nope, drink all the water.” Sherlock grimaced, but swallowed the proffered tablets while John warmed the metal chest-piece between his palms. 

“I know it’s cold, but I need the dressing gown off for a minute.” Greg helped him slip the cozy wool down his arms, then stood watching while John guided Sherlock through a series of inhalations. “Okay, deep breath now and blow it out as hard as you can.” This action triggered another round of coughing, which set him to aching and sweating again. 

“Well?” Greg looked gratifyingly concerned as Sherlock panted to catch his breath.

John shook his head. “His lungs sound pretty clear, actually. Watchful waiting, plenty of fluids, you know the drill.” John tucked the stethoscope away and ran his hands soothingly over Sherlock’s bare arms. “No point dragging you out for a chest x-ray just yet. It’d be more exhausting than diagnostic at this point.” He tapped the water glass. “Finish that up, and we’ll get you back into bed.”

Sherlock acquiesed as far as drinking the rest of the water, then protested “I’m not tired. I’ll stay here and read.” 

“Nope.” John stood and began hauling him to his feet. “You need to be in a bed, not sprawled out on the sofa. Bed is warmer, softer, better for your aches.”

“Bed is lonely.” What? That hadn’t been what he’d meant to say. Clearly the fever was making him delirious. “Boring. I meant boring. Bed is boring.” Yes, that was better.

John just chuckled. “Yeah, I know.” He began herding his reluctant patient down the hallway. “Greg, you need to be back in bed, too. You’re not completely recovered yet.” 

“I’ll go if Sherlock goes.” Greg picked up his cue so smoothly that Sherlock nearly skipped the argument. He protested just for form’s sake.

“He’ll snore and keep me awake.” 

“You’ll make all those weird noises you do, and keep me,” Greg countered.

John ignored their bickering, pulling back the bedding and piling the pillows into a cozy nest. Greg slipped in first, reclining into the piled cushions against the headboard, and opened his arms for Sherlock. “You’ll breathe better upright. Come on, come here now.” 

Sherlock sighed and arranged himself against Greg’s body, resting his cheek against the steadily beating heart beneath the sleep tee. He coughed again, and strong arms held him tightly until the spasm eased. When Sherlock finally relaxed, he did so completely and all at once, sinking into Greg’s embrace and closing his eyes with a moaning sigh. “I hate being ill.”

“Oh, love. We know.” Greg massaged Sherlock’s scalp soothingly. “We hate it for you. Thank you for letting us help.”

John hummed in agreement and carefully tucked the duvet around Sherlock’s shoulders. “There, now. Sleep’s the best thing for you.” 

“You need rest, too.” Greg’s voice rumbled against Sherlock’s ear. 

“You have to stay, John. I could take a turn for the worse and require medical attention.” Sherlock tried to shuffle his and Greg’s bodies over to make room for John on his other side.

“That seems unlikely. But yes, alright.” The mattress tipped as he settled beside them and draped the spare throw over his feet. 

He picked up his kindle and Sherlock sighed contentedly. “Read to us? Please? It keeps the dreams away.” Invoking John’s own experiences with fever-induced terror seemed a reasonable justification for his request. 

John sighed, but he clicked and swiped until he found something suitable and began reading in a low voice. _“I joined the Mortzestus in ‘Frisco. I heard before I signed on, that there there were some funny yarns floating round about her; but I was pretty nearly on the beach, and too jolly anxious to get away, to worry about trifles.”_

Sherlock didn’t have long to ponder the illogic of selecting a ghost story to keep away night frights, falling quickly into healing quiet, if not silence. He did snuffle and mutter and twitch, but Greg’s soothing touch and John’s voice soon drew him deeper. He slept, warm and safe and knowing they would be there when he woke.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own these characters and I don't make any money from the writing. LonghornLetters offered invaluable beta work that resulted in a tighter story with an actual ending. That being said, what she was given was an unfinished work and any remaining errors are mine alone. 
> 
> Text at the end is from "The Ghost Pirates" by William Hope Hodgson, thanks to Longhornletters for the suggestion!


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